This Sunday,Mark skipped out on the service,instead he shrugged off his pantslike Vatican vestments, hunched overhis young cock anointed with oilas he tight-gripped up and downeda prayer while the crimsonsmeared love letter of Mel Gibson'sThe Passion of the Christcast its sticky familiar spell.

In between cigarettes last Tuesday,Mark laughs out a cloud of smokeand tell me bloodis the best lubricant out thereand he can't wait to prove itto his girlfriend next sunday.I try not to judge.

As her parents kneel in prayer,Tori has acquainted her kneeswith the rough whiskered cheekof her living room carpet,and tuned her tongue tothe blessing of her best friend Amber'sbody parts.Young, in love, with no White BeardedFinger Pointer to tell them different.

This is the closest two sinners will ever getto seeing God without burning.They scribble prayers into the paradiseof each other's flesh, no English.In this Church, the faithful speak onlyin Tongues.

This is a 21st century Sunday. When the Church has shrunk too smallfor real Gods.The only baptism is the lonely cold showerfor as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.Our parents genuflect, arms folded silentlyas we kneel before lap top pornographyfetishizing our demons into somethingwe can dance with.

Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothingbut wet bedsheets and bruises,Mark is nobody's Messiahbut at least he's walking somewhere warm,with a Passion.Tori and Amber are the only reasonsI still believe love can last as long as Jesuspromised us it would .Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgivenessand open arms better than I ever willso go ahead.

Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.Call me your devil, you water walkers.